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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25105249">1000 Lies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistLaFey/pseuds/MistLaFey'>MistLaFey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reunions and Revelations [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Bound Fae, Dirk Strider Lies, Dissociation, Fae &amp; Fairies, I'm bad at math so bear with me if ages and dates don't add out, Including but not limited to ancestors and dancestors, It's like two sentences and probably won't happen again, Lies, Literally any Homestuck character is fair game, M/M, Magic and Curses, Memorials, Mild body horror?, More Alphabet organizations relating to supernatural communities, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Tags Subject to Change, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampires, non-linear timeline, shapeshifter associated gore, supernatural and paranormal elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:00:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25105249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistLaFey/pseuds/MistLaFey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years ago, D Strider went missing. Since then, Dirk has spent every free moment looking for D.<br/>And now, almost to the day, Dave goes missing too. The investigators say he's dead, but Dirk won't believe that for a minute. Maybe that's his downfall.</p><p>Prequel to Reunion of the Damned</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dirk Strider/John Egbert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reunions and Revelations [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We'll start near the end.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Oh, you poor boy. Victim of yet another human's villainy. Allow me to give you a gift," the Faerie queen sighs, observing John and Dirk as they kneel before her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not a victim, </span>
  </em>
  <span>You want to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dirk isn't a villain, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you try, but are unable to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I cannot break the binding he's placed on you, but I can promise you this: as long as you are bound to the human, he will not lie to you without consequence," her attention turns from you to Dirk, "I curse you, I curse you, I curse you, human. For your hubris, you will face death by a thousand cuts. Lie to your own kind, if you will. Lie to the vampires and the shapeshifters, lie to the Fae if you dare. But you will not lie to the boy you've bound. Every lie you tell him will be purchased in your own blood, and your skin will scar so he will always remember your treachery. And finally, when you've told him a thousand lies, you will die. All your wounds will reopen and you will bleed your hot iron blood before him, and he will be free. As long as he is bound to you by the curse you've placed on him, you will be cursed to bleed for your lies."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You can see Dirk's jaw working as he stares at the ground, but he says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are dismissed," the queen says, and there is no arguing with her tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirk nods and heads for the door. You stand, glaring at the queen while he retreats. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How dare she-</span>
  </em>
  <span>"Let's go, John," The great oak doors close behind you with a forceful slam, and the wind from them ruffles your hair as you follow Dirk out from Under the Hill.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And to the Beginning.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Three days ago your cousin’s boyfriend came home to an empty apartment. He had walked in the door, seen Dave’s backpack on the table next to his keys and wallet. Dave was not in the apartment. His coat was gone, cell phone went directly to voicemail. Karkat had called you in under an hour, to see if you could track his cell phone. You couldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been years since you had felt this helpless. The creeping anxiety of a family member gone missing was, unfortunately for you, not an unfamiliar feeling. You had long since been accustomed to the dark sludgy writhing in your stomach, making you nauseous with every dismal anxiety-ridden thought. Dave was not the first disappearance your family had faced. And now, six years later, the creeping, choking sort of rotten feeling is in your throat again trying to suffocate you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three days. Three days you’ve dealt with this feeling again, overthinking every possibility. Three days since you’ve slept, three days since you’ve left your apartment. If not for your roommate, it would have been three days since you ate, but John knows you well enough to push you into taking care of yourself. He knows the right buttons to push, and if he hadn’t been home it’s entirely possible you would have spent every single second hunched over your computer trying to investigate Dave’s disappearance from over 1,500 miles away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had gone to bed four hours ago, giving up on getting you to sleep once he watched you pour two entire redbulls into a liter sized thermos full of coffee. You’re practically vibrating on the couch. Your laptop is pulled onto your lap, swaying gently as you bounce your leg. Yeah, okay, maybe you do need to sleep soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone rings and you know it’s the call you don’t want to hear. No one calls with good news at three in the morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello,” you answer. Not a question, not even a greeting really. You already know what’s coming, even if you aren’t willing to admit it to yourself yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dirk,” Rose sighs on the other line. She sounds tired, she sounds drained. You wonder if she can hear the caffeine in your voice. “Dirk, they’re calling off the search.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dave?” you ask, this time the inflection is correct.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, there’s- there’s no sign of him. The vampire on the investigation team can smell his blood, but that’s it. She says there’s too much for him to,” she pauses, you can practically see her gritting her teeth against the next words. “For him to have survived. But there’s something else- something you should know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” You’re tired, too.  You’re too wired to sleep. John was right, that second redbull was a mistake. And to pour it into the coffee like some shitty thin sweetener- Yikes. Shit, John. You’re going to have to tell John- that won’t be fun, but you’re not going to make Rose call him. She probably has a list of other people she still has to get to tonight, better you take the one person on her list you live with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Derrick is dead.” Derrick Strider, fucked up and family black sheep. D had cut him off shortly before disappearing, after he found out what he’d been hurting Dave. He’d been compiling evidence, filling out custody paperwork. Not that any of that every came to mean anything, not after D disappeared. No court would let a 15 year old take custody of his 14 year old cousin, even if that 15 year old had all the money in the world. Even if that 15 year old was smart enough to get himself emancipated a week after his guardian disappeared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do I care? Is someone asking for money for a funeral?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she sighs again, “He’s dead </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As in, they found his body with Dave’s blood. This is all speculation, especially because there was no sign of struggle at the apartment, but I think he kidnapped Dave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You take a minute to process that. Yeah. Fuck, yeah, that makes sense. If he had broken into the apartment- threatened to hurt someone, maybe Karkat. Yeah. Dave would have gone with him. Leaving all his shit behind might have been the only way he could try to imply something was hinky. Fuck. “You’re a regular Sherlock, Lalonde.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t get smart with me now, please. I still have a bunch of people to call- and I’m staying with Karkat for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Karkat, Dave’s boyfriend. They’d been dating for four years, living together for just over two. “Do you need me to do anything, set anything up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Dirk. Well actually, can you tell John? Call me tomorrow and we can walk through some memorial arrangements.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not dead, Rose.” You say this with the same absolute certainly you use when you say D isn’t dead, and Rose picks up on your tone of voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She makes an aggravated growling noise, “Dirk,” she sounds exasperated, “Don’t. This isn’t like D. There’s no note, no proof of life. All we have is a pool of blood and Derrick’s rotting corpse. Dave- Dave didn’t make it out of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You aren’t going to get me to say otherwise. Produce a body, maybe then I’ll drop it. Until then- I’m searching for Dave too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dirk, your guardian disappeared during your formative years. It’s affected the way you think and perceive traumatic events, especially events regarding your own family. I can understand you not wanting to believe Dave is dead, but-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Rose. Don’t try to psychoanalyze me here. You’re only going to piss us both off. Go finish your calls- I’ll tell John. We’ll try to make it down for the memorial, but I’m telling you. Dave isn’t dead. I just- I have a feeling, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She exhales into the receiver, “Okay, Dirk. I’ll let it go for now. But please, Don’t exhaust yourself over this. I don’t need to plan your funeral the same week as Dave’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One more investigation isn’t going to kill you. You already spend so much of your free time looking into D’s disappearance- this probably has something to do with that anyway. What family is unlucky enough to have to completely unrelated disappearances almost six years to the day? Especially when you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>D’s disappearance is paranormal? “Bye, Rose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hangs up without returning the sentiment. Typical.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time to tell John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, you could, y’know. Not do that. It’s three A.M. He’s missed two days worth of classes- absolutely cannot afford to miss a third, unlike you. He needs to sleep. He’s still going to be stressed over Dave’s disappearance in the morning, and waking him to tell him the police are declaring Dave dead, declaring him a lost cause isn’t going to remedy that. Would he even be able to get back to sleep after something like that? How would you feel if someone woke you up at three in the morning to tell you that your best friend is dead, but that no one can find a body? To tell you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>give up </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying because the cops did?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, you wouldn’t go back to sleep either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe that’s just you, though, because you would absolutely start digging into crime scene reports and breaking into databases so you could come to your own conclusions. That’s what you’ve been doing for years. Rose would call it a maladaptive coping mechanism, you call it refusing to give up. You, Dirk Strider, are nothing if not persistent, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You end up dicking around on the couch for 15 minutes, contemplating the positives and negatives of waking John, before making your way into his bedroom. He’s curled up, asleep, facing the wall. You hop up onto the side of his bed and shake him awake, “John,” you whisper, digging your fingers into his shoulder lightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls over and you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, especially now when he isn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes are bloodshot and watery, tear tracks running down his cheeks. Of the two of you, he’s the crier. Maybe he wan’t asleep after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You swallow, then set your jaw, “They’re calling off the search. They found Derrick dead, and too much of Dave’s blood for him to be alive- at least that’s what the investigator said.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks, squinting at you to try and make out your expression, “You don’t believe the investigators?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shake your head, “I don’t know yet. I’m not going to say the wrong thing and give you ideas here, Egbert. I don’t have all the facts.” He’s lived with you long enough to know what this means- you’re going to investigate everything yourself. See if your so-called superior intellect can put together something the police missed, see if there’s a detail they’d overlook but Dave knew you would be smart enough to catch. See if Dave knew you’d come looking for him, even if it takes time away from looking for D. He’s your family too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods, then rolls over. He slides around on his mattress so he’s sitting up, back against the pile of pillows he keeps. He reaches over to his desk and picks up his glasses before sliding them onto his face. “And Rose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, she’s siding with the investigation. I’m supposed to call her tomorrow to help plan the memorial.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is tomorrow,” he supplies unhelpfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re quiet a moment, you can’t believe you walked into that one. What’s the first rule of living with John Egbert, Dirk? Never set yourself up so he can knock you down. “You were always the little bitch kid at sleepovers, weren’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles, before pulling on your arm. You’re used to this now- this free affection, this constant thing. John is much freer with his affection than you were ever used to, prior to becoming his roommate in college. Not that D wasn’t affectionate with you- he was. It’s just. He disappeared. After that, you didn’t really let anyone close enough to be comfortable. Dave lives 1,500 miles away in Houston with Derrick, who was literal human garbage, and he was the closest family you had left. Friends lived even further- Until John came down to LA for college that is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> So you slide up against the pillows too. You sit next to him and the mattress is so slim you’re forced into his space- legs touching from hip to ankle. He drops his head onto your shoulder and holds your hand loosely. The two of you sit there- just quietly. You think he’s fallen asleep and you’re beginning to resign yourself to the fate of sleeping sitting up when John whispers, “I hope Dave is okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That strikes a chord in you. In all the years you’ve been searching for D, it always felt like no one really understood. Like they thought it was your own delusion leading you to keep trying, when in reality all you want is for D to be okay. John has always been a bit like that, though. Putting a voice to the thoughts in your head you’re too tired or scared or wrapped up in- just saying them as if they’re the simplest thing. You freeze, unsure of how to react or-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s shaking his head against your arm, digging your shoulder into his eyes as though hoping that would prevent you from noticing what he’s doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the tears that do it, really. You were just going to sit there silently, but then you feel the warm wetness against your skin and you know John is crying- grieving for his friend, your family. You wrap your arm around his shoulder and pull him against you- into your chest. He needs comfort, and there is no one else around to provide it. You’re being practical, really, you tell yourself. He needs to be able to sleep so he can go to class tomorrow, but before he can sleep he needs to cry. He needs to cry and be comforted, because he will isolate himself if he only gets part of the equation. And then he’ll miss more classes, and he’ll feel worse for missing class so he’ll stay in bed and miss more class because he feels awful- It’s a vicious cycle, really. Better to nip it in the bud. It’s practical, it’s not like you need this too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re a rotten liar, Dirk. Especially to yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You drop your face into his hair and hold him as he cries, and if you cry too your tears get lost in his hair so no one will be able to tell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What’s the first rule of living with John Egbert, Dirk?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Don’t set yourself up so he can knock you down.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The apartment complex is in a nice part of town. There’s a park down the block, and a Wholefoods is only a fifteen minute walk away. The apartment itself is nice, too. Well furnished in a cheap-but-comfortable style that showed Karkat’s father definitely helped set Dave and Karkat up when they moved out. The walls are painted a warm sandy brown, like caramel just before it burns, with red-painted trimming around the floors boards and ceiling. You’d like to say it’s the kind of place you can picture Dave living comfortably, but you’d never seen him here. You and John had made plans to come down and visit a couple of times, but something had always come up at the last second. A flight cancellation, an unexpectedly expensive textbook, a sick coworker, a new lead on D.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You really regret that now. Dave was here, alive and safe. And you always let something come up, let something get in the way. It doesn’t matter now. You’ll find Dave, make it up to him then. Maybe move him and Karkat out to LA, or maybe you’ll move back to Houston after you get D back too. His fame is waning, but when he makes a sudden reappearance his films are sure to resurface. Maybe he’ll want to split his time between the cities?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dirk?” a voice snaps you from your thoughts, and a familiar face stands before you. Rose Lalonde, taller now than you remember. Older and a bit rounder, but she looks good. Her hair is bleached blonde, pinned and curled or whatever immaculately in her preferred short bob. As healthy as she could, you suppose, in light of everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Rose,” you offer with a nod. John had separated from you pretty much as soon as you stepped through the door. He’d caught sight of Jade in the kitchen crying quietly into a pot of something on the stove and had steered her gently into a chair before taking over stirring. Without him or anyone else to intervene, the awkwardness between you and Rose grew. You’d been butting heads over Dave for the better part of two weeks, and it had ended in a rather quiet argument that left you unsure if you were still welcome here today. Not that that mattered, obviously. You were going to be here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wasn’t sure you were still expected.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was I uninvited?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, of course not. Don’t be silly,” she smiles stiffly, “It’s just, typically, at memorial services the guests understand the </span>
  <em>
    <span>en memoriam </span>
  </em>
  <span>is deceased.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rose, don’t start,” you want to cross your arms, pinch your nose, huff in irritation. You aren’t going to give her that inch, she’ll take a yard and try to hang you with it like she always does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not starting anything, Dirk. I’m trying to finish it,” She does cross her arms, and she raises her chin in that defiant and haughty manner that disarms you in a way only Rose Lalonde is capable of. Unconsciously, you shift. You take a step back. Rose has been given her inch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re a dead man walking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t tell me you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dave to be dead,” you try, and it’s like stepping on a landmine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rose inhales sharply and pushes past you, opens the front door and gestures you outside. Uncertain if you’re about to spend the night in the hallway waiting for John or if you’re about to get the talking to you’re apparently begging for, you step into the hall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She follows, and closes the door behind her. Her hand stays on the doorknob. She stares at you for a moment, anger boiling in her sharp purple eyes. “Take those damn sunglasses off your face so I know you’re listening to me, Dirk Strider,” Her voice is cold and more threatening than you’ve ever heard from her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, you slide your shades off and fold them. They slide into your pocket and you make hesitant eye contact with her. She’s younger than you, shorter than you, and nowhere near as good a fighter as you’ve trained yourself to be. So why does it feel like you’re about to have your ass kicked six ways to Sunday?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. Dave is- was my brother, and one of my best friends. I would never-” she inhales shakily and pinches her eyes shut, then shakes her head and glares at you again, “If you’re going to go in there and try to convince people, hurt and </span>
  <em>
    <span>grieving </span>
  </em>
  <span>people, that Dave can’t be dead- if you’re going to give them false hope like that, I can’t let you go back in there. I can’t let you do that to Karkat, or to Mr. Vantas, or to the other dozen people inside. Do you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stare at her, willing her to understand. Dave can’t be dead, you feel it in your gut, in your bones. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing- </span>
  </em>
  <span>taken, probably by the same person or people that took D-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She snaps her fingers and then her voice, “That was not a rhetorical question, Dirk. Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand me?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s the moment you lose Rose, you think. She’s caught up in her own grief, her own emotions and pain, and she’s more willing to defend anyone who is sharing that pain with her than she’s willing to listen to your theories and hypothesis. You swallow the lump in your throat, and choke back your own bitterness. “I understand, Rose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods once, curtly, then does a sharp about-face and walks back into the apartment. She leaves the door open behind her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You allow yourself a deep breath, then take your shades out of your pocket and put them on your face. You step back into the apartment and see Rose on the couch between Jade and Karkat. You walk into the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks up from the pot of tear-soup as you walk into the room and his eyes go a little wide. You’re confused for a second, did he think Rose was kicking you out? Was he even aware that conversation happened?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dirk,” a familiar voice chimes, and you realize why John looked like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jake,” you turn to face him, and his eyes look a little puffy but nowhere near the extent of many others here, “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles weakly and shrugs, “Jade asked me. Poor girl doesn’t think she can drive herself after this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You can do this, this polite chit-chat with your ex. You don’t want to, it makes your skin itch and your blood burn, but you will. Keep the peace, you don’t need someone else taking you out to the hall to snap at you. “Yeah, makes sense. She and Dave- pretty close, right?” You aren’t going to refer to Dave in the past tense, you can’t. But if Rose hears you going around talking about Dave like he’s still alive (which he is) she’ll think you’re doing exactly what she told you not to. Mind your mouth, Dirk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d reckon so, alright. Thick as thieves and all that, especially after I moved in with her. She and I- family, but we don’t do well in each others space all day. Need a bit of a getaway now and then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>You’d know all about getting away, wouldn’t you, Jake?</em> “So, you’re living with Jade?” Out of the corner of your eye you see John tense, and he clicks off the burner under the pot. He keeps stirring, but you know he’s listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, didn’t I-? Oh, well I do suppose we haven’t been talking as much as we used to, old chum,” he’s rubbing the back of his neck now, chuckling awkwardly as he dances around the subject he knows you’re thinking of. You can never tell with Jake, is he too smart to be this unaware or too unaware to realize what he’s doing? “Aha, well, yeah. Moved in with Jade last August, but I’m thinking about moving out to Arizona. I’ve a nifty job offer on the table out there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, Christ. Is he seriously going to give you a briefing on everything he’s been up to since he Dear John’d your ass almost two years ago? Thank fuck for your shades, or else the look of sheer disinterest in your eye would throw Jake for a loop. You’re about to make a noncommittal noise, attempt to fake interest, when John jumps in and saves your ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jake,” he smiles, “maybe his cousin’s memorial isn’t the best time to catch up with Dirk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jake jumps and smiles sheepishly, bringing a hand up to his jaw, “Oh, bother! Right you are, John. I’ll just- I’ll um…” he looks around the room, fumbling for an escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John serves up a bowl of what he’d been cooking, some sort of chili, and hands it to Jake, “Take this to Jade?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jake practically jumps on the bowl and scuttles out of the kitchen. When he’s out of your sight, you slump against the island and press a hand to your forehead. You’re getting a migraine. Five minutes in a room with Jake English, and you’re getting a migraine. You could have sworn you were getting better with this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John leans against the counter next to you and holds out another bowl of chili. Who the hell serves chili at a memorial? Very little chance Rose would plan that as part of the menu. “What’s with the food?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jade was supposed to come over this week, teach Dave how to make it. She didn’t even have to change her travel plans,” a sad, forced chuckle escapes him. It’s a bitter, wet noise that you never want to hear again. You’ve heard it before. You’ve heard it a lot in the past few weeks. You know you’ll hear it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’ve never felt less hungry in your life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You eat the chili anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the rest of the night, you stand in the kitchen. You don’t cross the divide of the apartment, don’t cross into the living room Rose has claimed. You nod at anyone who comes into the room, but not many stop to talk to you. You’re the estranged cousin, after all. Not the grieving sister or the mourning best friend, they don’t feel the need. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roxy makes their way into the kitchen about an hour after John leaves you to watch the chili pot and the veggie platter you took out of the fridge and left on the counter. They come up to you and wrap their arms around your neck, buries their face in your neck and mumbles, “‘sup, Dirky?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jade made chili,” you mumble back, your own face getting lost in their wild curls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roxy slumps against you, their frame thin and light and you hold them up with ease. When Roxy grew up they really only grew <em>up.</em> “Not hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod, and that’s it for a while. Roxy leans against you, and you’re trapped between them and the counter. It feels like a long time before you speak. “I need you to do something for me, Rox. And I need you not to ask why.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their face comes up and pink eyes look into yours questioningly, “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look into the living room, check to ensure Rose isn't listening, then whisper, “I need you to hack the records and get me copies of the investigation’s files, local, federal, all of them.” Their eyes search your face, and for the second time that night you slide your shades off your face. “Rox, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They tilt their head and the seconds pass, but a smile slips across their face, “Yah, sure. No prob, babes,” they wink and pat your face in mock-condescension. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s the moment you’re sure Roxy is on your side. They feel it too, you think. Dave has to be alive and they know it too, and you feel better than you have all night. Losing Rose’s trust in you, losing Dave, and the memories of losing D that haunt you, it was feeling like too much. The relief from having one person on your side is immense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roxy reaches past you, steals a baby carrot from the vegetable platter that you’ve been guarding and dances back out of the kitchen. You can see their movement over the Rose/Dirk do-not-cross line. They swing their way behind the couch and you watch as Roxy leans down and drops a kiss into Karkat’s messy hair; as they put their arms around all three people on the couch (Rose, Karkat, and Jade) and give them all a loose, reassuring hug. It’s the kind of movement that would be awkward if anyone else were to make it, but Roxy’s lanky build and height give it grace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even later, when Karkat walks into the kitchen you start wishing you were better at comforting people. Mostly that’s because you look up from massacring your cuticles and shoot him a nod and a quick “‘Sup?” before you realize how much of a dick move it is to say that, and only that, to someone who just lost their partner. If you were a contortionist you’d keep your foot in your mouth all fucking day just to avoid doing it verbally.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks at you twice, then scoffs and opens the fridge. It’s a minute before he turns around with a bottle of water in hand. “Dirk, right?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” you reply, rubbing at the back of your neck a little awkwardly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cracks open his water and takes a sip before sniffling and speaking again. He looks over into the living room, then in the closest thing to a whisper he can manage, “Rose says you think Dave is still alive?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod, unsure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at you for a long moment, then sips at his water again before angrily rubbing at his eyes. “I’m not going to say that I hope you’re right, even if it’s true. Just, um. Just don’t do anything dangerous if you’re going to look into this, okay? Rose may be pissed off at you right now, but- Well. You weren’t at that warehouse. You didn’t see how she reacted. Don’t… Don’t make her go through that again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he leaves the room. He crosses the Rose/Dirk divide and you don’t speak to him again that night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a few hours before anyone else takes the time to speak to you when the come in the kitchen. Sure, you get a bit of polite chitchat from anyone who pops in to steal from your vegetable platter, or to get a bowl of Jade’s chili, but nothing beyond “Good to see you,” or “I’m sorry about Dave.” And that’s fine, really. You aren’t good at this sort of thing, and you know as soon as you get back to LA you’re going to be spending every minute John doesn’t drag you away from your computer researching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When someone does finally come into the room, you don’t immediately recognize them. It takes a minute of staring to process the fact that this man, tired and rumpled in a way that leaves deep purple marks under his eyes and wrinkles in his dress-shirt, is Keaton Vantas. Karkat’s father and the man who gave Dave a roof and everything you couldn’t manage to get him when he finally got away from Derrick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at you for a long minute with tear tracks still obvious on his face, and then strangest of all things, he walks up and pulls you directly into a hug. You’re stiff in his grasp, and you pat his shoulder awkwardly. When he pulls back he holds you by the shoulders and stares again. He gapes at you, then says, “You don’t know me, I know. But I wanted you to know that Dave was- is- always will be family to me. I know what it’s like, to be in a bad situation with no way out, no way except help from someone else. I-I don’t know that you’ll ever need it, but know that you have my help if you do. I know things, people. And I’ve heard you’ve been investigating a disappearance, your father? Well, you may just find a scorpion if you turn over the wrong rock, so keep me in mind.” And he hands you a business card, just his name, a phone number, and the word ‘W.I.S.P.S’. Oh goodie. An alphabet man trying to give you help you don’t need, you think in the moment and resign yourself to pinning the business card up on the corkboard so it can be covered up by pointless post-its and class schedules. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s that card that gives you the first solid lead you’ve had on D. Damn shame it takes you so long to call the guy.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Dirk Strider, step away from the computer,” John’s voice calls out from the entryway of the apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You elect to ignore him. You usually do when he makes this request. You have more pressing matters at hand, more research to do, more dead ends to chase into oblivion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John steps into the room. You can feel it like a change in atmospheric pressure. Say what you will about John Egbert, the guy has </span>
  <em>
    <span>presence. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Not now, John. I’m busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs, and you feel his hands curl around the support bar that crosses the back of your desk chair, “Dirk, get off the computer before I turn it off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You freeze, just for a millisecond, but it’s enough of an acknowledgement that John probably knows he’s winning. Stupid. Have to keep moving around him, can’t let him get to you. “You wouldn’t dare,” you growl, already knowing that he would. But it’s the principle of the thing, you know? This is the approved response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would,” he says, exactly as you knew he would because that too, is the approved response. Stubbornly, you continue to type at the computer, reading and skimming the documents Roxy had sent over after the memorial. The trail was already getting cold- Dave’s been gone three weeks now. The longer he’s missing the harder it will be to find him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel the light rocking of the chair as John shifts his grip on the support bar, preparing to rip it away from the desk. You plant your feet on the floor and tense your thighs, getting ready to stand. He may take your chair but he isn’t going to take you with it. At least, that’s what you think. But then, suddenly and with all his strength which is not a small amount by any means, John </span>
  <em>
    <span>spins </span>
  </em>
  <span>the fucking chair and you go for a ride. It was not the movement you had been prepared for so your hip slides into the armrest and your ankles clank against the feet of the chair like a duster against a turned-on ceiling fan and you go careening into the wall, desperate to avoid toppling over. John dives beneath your desk as you try to avoid dizziness by focusing on one spot in the room like a ballerina doing a fucking pirouette, and it doesn’t work. You hit the wall with a solid </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oomph,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and bring a hand to your head in some attempt to steady your now scrambled brains. You can hear the shout of victory as John yanks the plug that connects your monitor to the electricity out of the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You would say the smile on John’s face is blinding, or triumphant, or something but the room is spinning so hard you can’t really point out what it looks like. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>can, </span>
  </em>
  <span>however, curse him out for being an idiot, “What the fuck, dude? I was working.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>working, Dirk. You need to take a break before you burn yourself out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’d roll your eyes, but they’re behind your usual shades so he can’t see them. Plus, you’re pretty sure those amber majesties are lost somewhere in Wonderland because you still can’t fucking focus. “So you throw me across the room? John, Christ, everything is spinning.” You try to put your head in your hands but you must misjudge the distance because your hands end up behind your head with your shades catching in your elbows. Fine. This is fine. This is totally what you meant to do, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>throw </span>
  </em>
  <span>you,” he protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell would you call it, then? You yote my chair and I was still in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s yeeted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” you snap, or as close to snapping as you can manage with this fucking dork. This joke is getting to the point that he’ll feel guilty about it for like a week if you let it go on any longer. Time to sigh and stand up, Dirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh and stand up. Then you fall back into the chair because your equilibrium is still jacked. Except the chair must be dizzy too because it’s not where you left it, so you fall to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John makes a concerned-panicky kind of noise and then you’re being lifted to your feet by this dorky asshole you swear you’re going to kick out one day. Honest to God, you’ll do it. Who cares if he’s like the one and only person you can count on, aside from Roxy? Friends, who? Dirk Strider doesn’t need friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lift-walks your dizzy ass to the couch before dropping you onto the cushions. He steps away and when he comes back he’s got his bookbag open and resting on his chest, “Here, by the way.” He hands you a manila folder. Well, less hands it to you and more drops it in your lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How the hell am I supposed to know, Dirk? You told me to give it back to you after I got home today, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink once, twice, then shake your head and try to clear the last of the dizziness. Everything is still a little fuzzy around the edges, but he’s not making sense. Unless his spin technique comes new and improved with concussions, you did not see John on campus today. You did not leave your apartment today. “I what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at you quizzically, comedic head tilt and all, “Did you hit the wall too hard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You start plucking at the clasp on the envelope, bending the little spokes up, “I haven’t left the house all day, dude.” You point to your clearly rumpled pajamas, as if that would be any sort of evidence for John Egbert. He’s just going to ask if you put dirty pjs on to prank him or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk, this is a stupid prank. I applaud you for trying, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>See? Told you so. “Not prankin’ you dude. I seriously haven’t left the house. You can check the keystroke logging system on the computer, assuming you plug my fucking monitor back in, you goddamn animal.” You shake the contents of the envelope out into your lap. They come out upside down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God fucking damn it-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, John goes with the comical head-tilt-confusion combo but he sits down next to you on the couch. “No way, it was you. You were wearing that stupid white tank top with the hat on it and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John I lost that shirt like a month ago, remember? I was pissed, who jacks someone else’s laundry at the laundromat? That’s just rude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A strange look crosses John’s face and his eyes go a little foggy behind the glasses, so you take advantage of the moment of quiet to turn the documents over. You have to stifle your reaction, because of course you do, but John? John’s never had to play with a mask like yours. He gasps and yanks the photo out of your lap, “Isn’t this-?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod before he finishes, “That’s D.” Six years, and you finally get your first fucking real lead and John Egbert doesn’t have the braincells to tell you who gave him the folder. “Who gave you this, John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, mouth open, “I- I mean. I thought you did? It looked like you, sounded like you? He was wearing your shirt, Dirk. What other asshole has a tank top with a fucking hat on it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What other asshole has a tank top with a hat on it indeed, my dear Egbert. You start flipping through the other papers in the folder, most of them are papers and documents you hadn’t realized were missing. They’re all dated within a few weeks of D’s disappearance. You find pages of an unfinished script, a few scrap drawings, some tax papers. Nothing looks important. Finally, you snatch the photo from John’s hand. In the photo, D sits against the far wall of a wooden cell with his head buried against his knees. You wouldn’t be certain it’s him, except you can see in clear detail the fishbelly-white scar on his forearm from the first katana you ever bought. You’d been fucking around and he’d been pacing while rambling script ideas into a recorder, and well... that hadn’t mixed. You turn the photo over, mostly hoping for a date of capture or a paper brand or some other breadcrumb, and God do you ever find one. On the back of the photo, written in neat cursive is the phrase “Two for Mirth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shoot up from the couch, ready to get back online. You have to find out what this means, you have to get Roxy to hack into the security cameras, you have to find out who John thought was you, you have to-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grabs the back of your shirt and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yanks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hard. You topple back and land half on the couch, half in his lap. “Dirk, fucking stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t. Have to look into this-” It doesn't matter that you can feel the exhaustion in your face, that the way your under-eyes droop is a physical sensation because this is the first tangible lead, the first real promise-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to eat something, okay? Take a fucking shower, take a nap. Come on, I’ll call Roxy. I’ll have them start doing- um.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s not going to let you, Dirk. You know that. He’s got the patience and the energy to outlast you. He actually sleeps at night, while you stay up on the computer practically attached to an IV of coffee, redbull and monster. You aren’t going to win, especially not when there’s a part of you screaming, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, yes, fuck yes a nap!</span>
  </em>
  <span> So, you relent. “Video feeds, they have to start hacking the campus video feeds. I need to know who gave you the file.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fine. Roxy’ll hack the video. I’ll cook something up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>go take a shower. When you get out I’ll have something ready, and I can keep you from passing out in the pasta plate.” John stands, dumping the half of your ass that had been in his lap back onto the couch, and walks into the kitchen you share with him but aren’t allowed to use for more than cereal and chips. It’s not that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>cook, he swears. It’s just that if he watches you put marshmallows into one more casserole he’s going to scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You collect your toiletries and your towels, then step into the bathroom. Unlike John, you don’t shower with music or a podcast playing so there isn’t much else to do but turn the water on and wait for it to get hot. When it finally reaches your preferred temperature, you step into the shower and let the scalding hot water pound the aches in your back and neck while you puzzle over the note. “Two for Mirth,” you mutter to yourself. Based on the timing of the note, you have to assume that the two are D and Dave. It’s the only logical answer. So what’s the play here? Is someone trying to confirm they have them both? Then why send a picture of only D? You also don’t know how old that photo is. Yet. You’ll try and figure something out. Maybe you can bully that forensics major again, though she may be loathe to assist you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time you’ve run yourself ragged in mental gymnastics, John is knocking on the bathroom door, “Dirk, don’t fall asleep in there. Dinner’s ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You won’t take the time to bother correcting John on the fact that this meal isn’t necessarily dinner so much as it is breakfast for you, in the traditional definition of the word. Okay, so you forgot to eat again. You were busy. You’re essentially running a one man investigation on a six year old cold case. It’s exhausting, but you won’t let it show.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You rinse the shampoo out of your hair. You’d wonder when you went on auto-pilot, but you kind of always do in the shower? It’s some combination of hot water and silence and a bit of space separate from everyone else, you guess. Happens sometimes when John’s at class or out of the apartment too. He’ll leave and you’ll blink and six hours have gone by without you registering a single word of research you’ve done. Hence the necessity for the keystroke logging program, you have to remember how you got to where you were for the information to make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You rinse soap off your shoulders. Don’t remember doing that either, Dirk? Oh well. Time to get out. You shut the water off and towel yourself down, then get dressed. By the time you step out of the bathroom you feel a little more human, even if you do look a little less like yourself with your hair down and your shades hanging from your teeth as you shake the already damp towel through your dripping hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slip into the kitchen and take your seat at the four-person dining table. John sets a plate of- “Is there broccoli in this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, mouth already full even as he slips into his seat, “And some ground beef, too. You don’t have enough variety in your diet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren't my dietitian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John snorts, “I don’t want to come home and find you passed out on your keyboard again, Dirk. Just eat the damn macaroni.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You eat the damn macaroni. The cheese does its level best to disguise the broccoli, but it just doesn’t cut it. You’re not a picky eater, you swear. It’s just, some things are best left to their purest states. Like Potassium.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You allow John to force a plate of broccoli and beef tainted macaroni and cheese into your stomach, then you let him bully you onto the couch. You’re just stubborn enough to prevent him from convincing you to get all the way to your bed, but he seems content enough to know you’re going to get an hour or two of sleep. When you flop onto the couch you bury your face into the cushions, and John leaves the living room. You assume he’s going off to whatever corner of the apartment allows him to do whatever it is he does when you’re asleep, but you’re wrong. He comes back into the living room with your pillow and your comforter, you know because the pillow hits you in the back of the head just before the comforter goes over you. John half-burritos you into the blanket when he tucks you in. </span>
</p><p>
   <span>“If you’re going to baby me have the decency to wear a nanny's uniform,” you mumble, half asleep and sandwiched between the cushion and your pillow. John picks the pillow up again and whacks you in the back of your still damp head, and you fall asleep to the sound of his footsteps retreating to the kitchen.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mist LaFey back at it again with making characters fall asleep instead of ending chapters in a satisfying manner.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You’re sitting on the old lumpy couch in the apartment you’ve shared with Dirk for the better part of three years. You have your feet kicked up on the coffee table and your computer is in your lap. You've been home all day working on your physics paper. Normally Dirk would try to help you with an assignment of this complexity to the point of annoyance, but he isn’t home. You absolutely did that on purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Dirk is out trying to follow up on the imposter. At least, that’s what he’d said he was going out to do when he dashed out of the apartment this morning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s been gone for hours,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think. And then you hear the lock turn and the door open. You're so close to being done, just another few sentences and you’d have the whole 15 page paper done. If you finish the first draft without his help maybe you’ll understand the topic better. You don’t turn around to look at him as he walks into the apartment, walking down the short hallway into the living room, "Hey, Dirk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel his arms drop onto the couch behind your head, and the old thing makes a creaking noise as Dirk shifts his weight to lean down over your shoulder. He’s closer than usual so he must be tired,  "'Sup. What're you working on?" You can feel his breath ghosting across your neck with how close he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Physics paper. Almost done."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should I check it over?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah, this is just the rough draft. If you want to check over the final when that's done though?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes an affirmative humming noise, and then is otherwise silent. You get the feeling he's reading over your shoulder. You hurry up and add your concluding sentence, then end it with a solid </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the period key and save the document. You shut your laptop and stretch, and there's a series of pops from your lower spine and neck. You jump when Dirk's arms slide around your abdomen. "Dirk, what-" he's pulled you enough now that you're sitting on the back of the couch, held tight against his body. He rests his chin against your arm, too short to reach your shoulder with you perched on top of the couch like this. You feel him sigh and you hear the clicking of his shades folding, then he rubs his cheek softly against your bicep. His eyes are closed and his face is missing his usual pinched and pensive expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so you’re having a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mild</span>
  </em>
  <span> freak out. Dirk doesn’t behave like this often, and when he does he’s either completely exhausted himself to the point of collapse or he’s high as shit. You’re contemplating what to do when you hear the door open again. Did he invite someone over? Who would he invite over? What the hell is happening?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then you hear Dirk, much further away than possible, “What the hell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You crane your head around so you can look over your shoulder and you can see Dirk standing in the entryway of your apartment, key in hand. But Dirk is standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your chest. The Dirk holding you still lets out a low chuckle and he looks up, your eyes meet his and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His eyes are vibrantly, viscerently </span>
  <em>
    <span>red. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Busted,” Not-Dirk mutters, and then your hands are coming up to clutch at his arms which are still wrapped around your abdomen. You claw at his skin, trying to get away. He grapples with you, tugging and holding tighter, and then he pulls you over the couch and struggles you onto your knees with your back to him. One hand comes off of you, but he’s back a second later with a knife he must have pulled from his pocket flicked out and held to your throat. He either doesn’t want to be careful or doesn’t care because you can feel the heat of blood where the knife touches your skin. The carpet digs into your knees and your fingers clutch at his hand. He doesn’t move an inch even as your nails bite into his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” you ask him, you know. Like a dumbass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Obviously, I’m Dirk Strider,” Not-Dirk answers in a smug tone that makes you consider elbowing him in the gut even though he has a knife to your neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk, the real one, steps slowly into the room with his hands raised, “You’re the one who gave John the folder.”</span>
</p><p><span>“I am,” because of course he is. It’s not like there’s a bunch of- of </span><em><span>other</span></em><span> Dirks</span> <span>running around town. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Did you know what was in the folder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I have to assume you want to help me find D. You don’t need a knife or a hostage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think that because my actions benefited you I’m your ally?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you?” Dirk asks, and you stop yourself from laughing because from where you’re sitting the answer is a resounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not-Dirk tightens his hold on your throat and you have to lean back into his chest to avoid the knife. “Maybe I just like causing problems for the people who’ve caused problems for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The enemy of my enemy-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make me your friend. I came back for something. John here didn’t do as he was told, so now I’m owed,” and suddenly the knife is gone from your neck and a sharp pain stings behind your ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand flies up to rub at the spot and Not-Dirk picks you up and shoves you toward Real-Dirk, “What the fuck?” you mutter as you stumble into Dirk’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk catches you by the arm and guides you around to stand behind him. It’s probably better, knowing his physical skill, but it looks thoroughly unimpressive since you have a solid six inches on him, “John doesn’t owe you shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not-Dirk smirks, “Not anymore, no.” Not-Dirk has ripped a few hairs from your head and holds them out for you to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why the fuck do you want my hair? What are you even going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles a creepy genuine grin that you’ve never seen on Dirk’s face and separates one hair from the rest in his hand. He raises it to his mouth, sets it on his tongue and </span>
  <em>
    <span>swallows. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Within seconds you hear bones popping, skin shifting, and then it’s not Not-Dirk standing in front of you. It’s like looking in a mirror, but his eyes are still that vivid shade of red. Like that’s the one thing he can’t or won’t change. Your own face stares back at you with that creepy smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you?” you ask, horrified and confused. A little afraid. Part of you is contemplating the usefulness of this ability in a prank-war, but that’s beside the point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A doppleganger,” Real-Dirk answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad to see you know something of the paranormal world. You’ll need to know more of it if you ever want to get anywhere on your investigation,” Not-You says in your voice, a harsher tone than you’ve ever used.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Dirk asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can puzzle that one out for yourself. I’ve been inside your head, you’re smart enough. This one though,” he points at you, shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” you bark, offended. Dirk sticks an arm out to keep you from stepping in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doppelganger laughs, and it’s a weird feeling to watch yourself do that, especially when you know it’s not you. You are firmly settled into the discomfort of the uncanny valley now. When he finishes, he stands up to your full height and sets his shoulders in better posture than you’ll ever have. He steps forward and Dirk pushes you further behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy, Strider,” the doppelganger smiles, “I’ve already got what I came for,” and he walks to the door. Dirk turns and twists so he stays between you and the imposter the whole time. It’s a tight squeeze to manage three people in the tiny entry hall, especially with the shuffling movement but Dirk does it. The doppel turns the doorknob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Dirk calls in a choked voice, “I’ve- I mean. You’re the first person to know where D is and you’re just going to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my plan, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll trade for it. You’re fae, aren’t you? Let’s make a bargain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His red eyes, so wrong in your face, trail across the both of you, “I’ve been fae at one time or another, and I’ve been nearly everything else too. I’ve been you, Dirk. I know there’s nothing you’d be willing to give up that I’d want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk shakes his head and grinds his teeth stubbornly, he takes a step away from you, closer to the imposter, “There has to be something. Something I could get, something I could do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, the doppelganger stops. He releases the doorknob and he tilts his head in a contemplative manner you’ve never used but have seen Dirk do. Then he sighs and shakes his head, “Alright, I’ll make a deal. Bring me a certain piece of information, and I’ll give you one in return.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk’s shoulders drop with relief, “What do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doppelganger smirks, “My name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, what? How do you not know your own name, dude?” Yes, John. Ask the strange man who can clone anyone including yourself how he doesn’t know his own name. Treat the scary doppelganger like he’s a moron, that’s absolutely brilliant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doppelgangers aren’t given one. We aren’t our own people, our existences aren’t our own. We’re clones and copies of your knowledge and memories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, I mean. What do people call you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It depends on what I look like. I’ve been loads of people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” you say, shouldering past Dirk who’s beginning to look like he wants to murder you, “I mean. What do your friends call you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have friends of my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s… sad. His expression on your face is a mask of neutrality you’d never be able to pull off, but you imagine his loneliness. That inky blackness of feeling like there’s no one out there you can be yourself around. You know that feeling and it doesn’t sit well with you. Something stupid is tumbling out of your mouth before Dirk can stop you, “You do now. Me and Dirk both. What should we call you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can feel the glare you’re getting over your shoulder. Dirk is trying to do that thing with his eyes where you’d drop dead or unconscious if he had the power to make it happen. You’re so glad Dirk doesn’t have the laser-eye ability to make that happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doppel looks at you curiously and you’re beginning to think he may just leave without giving you an answer, but he turns and leans against the door. He crosses his arms and stares at you, then looks to Dirk who just shrugs as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I never know what he’s going to do, don’t ask me.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Finally, the doppelganger smirks, then twitches it into a smile. “Until you find my name, I suppose you can call me Ainsel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk snorts and pulls you away from the imposter, closer to himself, and you feel like you’re missing the joke but you shrug it off. You shrug off Dirk too. The tension that had been present in the air when Ainsel was holding a knife to your throat is long gone, and it’s rude to cower before a new friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Ainsel then. When Dirk has your name, how should we contact you?” The name feels strange in your mouth and you make a mental note to ask Dirk about it later, when Ainsel isn’t busy talking about where you can find him online. Just because he doesn’t exist doesn’t mean he can’t commit credit card fraud, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Ainsel finally leaves, you and Dirk both deflate rather simultaneously. Then Dirk is turning you around and moving your face so he can look at the mark on your neck, “I guess he cut you a little,” he says and you reach up to feel it but the blood is already dry. It doesn’t feel like it dripped all that much, so it must not have been very deep. Maybe he wasn’t even planning to hurt you at first, maybe he only ended up doing so because Dirk came home. Maybe he panicked, you would have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he doesn’t have any regard for human life because he isn’t human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re… really glad Dirk came home. You probably wouldn’t have realized Ainsel wasn’t Dirk if he hadn’t, and now he has a possible lead on D. But, at the same time your skin is still crawling. Something about watching someone physically transform from one person into another must have really upset you. You kind of wish you hadn’t had to watch that. “Hey, um-” you start, then shake your head and pause. “That was- um. I’m going to go take a shower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk either doesn’t notice that you’re acting strangely or he thinks you’re shaken up enough from that encounter to ignore it, “Okay. Make sure to use antibacterial soap on your neck, no clue where that knife’s been.” He nods at you once, awkwardly like how he usually does when he’s not sure what to say next, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing like a madman as he makes his way to the couch. You blink at his sudden calm focus, wishing you had the capacity to switch off like that, then shrug and collect your shower stuff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you lock the bathroom door something is still nagging the back of your mind, but you try to ignore it. You turn on your playlist- mostly just classical stuff with an emphasis on the piano because Dirk usually complains if you start singing when he’s trying to focus- and then turn on the shower. While the water heats you undress, then take a minute to look at the cut on your neck in the mirror. It’s shallow, and it hardly bled, and when you run your fingers over it it already feels smooth. That’s weird. You could have sworn you’d bled, it had felt hot like you were. Maybe Ainsel just knew how to hold the knife so it felt worse than it was?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You decide to ignore it. It’s not like it matters. You aren’t really hurt, and it’s not going to happen again now that Dirk and Ainsel made a deal. You take your shower and try to figure out what you’re going to have to cook in order to get Dirk off the internet. He’s closer than he’s ever been to finding D and you know he’s going to exhaust himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>again </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to follow this up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you get out of the shower and go back to the living room you are surprised to find Dirk laying on the couch playing with his phone. “Um. What’re you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Playing Doodle Jump,” he responds, tilting and tapping at his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink and knock his feet off the couch, “So. Why aren’t you, like. Going insane on the internet trying to find Ainsel’s name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowers his phone and his shades and gives you the </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘You can’t be this stu- unobservant’</span>
  </em>
  <span> look. You have to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s assured you many times that he doesn’t think you’re actually an idiot. It’s just that he picks up on details you miss and is, often, a jerk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, obviously I missed something again. But I stand by my question. By all accounts, you should be doing your whole ‘I have to single-handedly run an investigation on a cold case because the police are incompetent bumbling fools’ bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, you get the Dirk Strider Glare™, but this time he says, “I’m not going to be able to find his name, because he doesn’t have one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod slowly, still not understanding, “Right, so. How are you calm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives up. You can see it in the way he drops his head onto the armrest, not to mention the way he holds out his unlocked phone for you to take. (Always a bad move when you’re feeling the need to pull a prank. Which is always.) But this time your curiosity wins out because he has it open to a recent chat with Roxy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p class="pesterchum">
  <b>-- </b>
  <b class="dirk">timaeusTestified</b>
  <b> [</b>
  <b class="dirk">TT</b>
  <b>] began pestering </b>
  <b class="roxy">tipsyGnostalgic</b>
  <b> [</b>
  <b class="roxy">TG</b>
  <b>] --</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Do not ask why, but can you create a new identity?</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: New birth certificate, new SSN, new everything.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: And I don’t mean can you buy an identity off the deep web and change the name and address of a dead person. I mean NEW.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: i mean</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: sure?</b>
</p><p>
  <b class="roxy">TG: but lik thas a big crime di-stri</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: id hafta hack the social security administration</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: find a populated but unassigned #</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: then</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: assuming this is for a person *not* currently one day old</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: id hafta fudge the files so it looks older</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: then id hafta do the same but like</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: in a hospital database?</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: and it would have to be an *old* hospital thats still running</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: get it?</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Got it.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Can you do it?</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: geez do u srsly doubt my mad hackz?</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: You know I don’t.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: I doubt the fact that a hospital could exist under the same name for over twenty years, and I doubt the internet’s ability to retain those records.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: yah yeh</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: lay it on thic and maybe ill be nice</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: How long do you think this would all take?</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: hm</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: depends</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: u got a name u wan on this fancy freaky new ID</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Not particularly.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: issit for u</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: did you break a law and get caught</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: di-stri did u leave my mad hackz out where any ol copper could find evidence of my illicit activities</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Nothing as irresponsible as that.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: And I told you not to ask.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: haha yah</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: 2 bad bby</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: u want big crime u give me the deets</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Fine.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: …</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: I met someone who has a solid, tangible lead on D.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: He knows where D is, Rox.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: But he’s a doppelganger. And the only way he’ll give me any more information is if I give him his name.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: but doppels don hav names</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: like</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: thats a fundamennal</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: fundamnetl</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: fuck</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: FUNDAMENTAL</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: :)</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: part of their mythos</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Exactly.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Which is why I need you to create my new friend a brand new identity.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: It’s why I can’t just buy one off the black market.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: ‘new friend’</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: that doesnt sound like u</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: ‘pain in the ass keepin me from my goals’</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: now that sounds like u</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Now you’re stepping firmly back into Do Not Ask territory, Rox.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: mkay so it was john rite</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: …</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: hahaha</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: love it</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: sure thing</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: gimmie bout a week mkay</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: Fine.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>You see something off in Roxy’s typing that you haven’t seen in a very long time, and it concerns you enough to send a message. You ignore the fact that you’re on Dirk’s phone, Roxy will pick up on it being you if they’re coherent.</span>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: …</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: you aren’t drinking again, are you?</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: nah</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: y</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: the typos?</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: txtin blind johnny boy</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: got a sweet new gig bouncin at this dope club</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: gots 2 keep my eye on all the kiddos tryna sneak in</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: oh.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: alright then.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: i kno u worry</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: im ok</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: my boss lady is doin a bitchin job keepin me on the wagon</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: real sweet</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: or you’re just sweet on the boss.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: u kno i don kiss n tell</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: ;)</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: that implies theres been kissing.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: i win.</b>
</p><p class="roxy">
  <b>TG: :O</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: bye, rox.</b>
</p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: thanks for this.</b>
</p><p> </p><p class="pesterchum">
  <b>-- </b>
  <b class="dirk">timaeusTestified </b>
  <b>[</b>
  <b class="dirk">TT</b>
  <b>] ceased pestering </b>
  <b class="roxy">tipsyGnostic </b>
  <b>[</b>
  <b class="roxy">TG</b>
  <b>] --</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You change the homescreen to a picture of the duck from "A Duck Walked Up to a Lemonade Stand" and hand the phone back to Dirk before you flop back into the space at the end of the couch. Dirk drops his feet into your lap in retaliation for moving them in the first place, and then you hear the faint noises of a bouncing green doodle chiming happily from his cell phone. He is apparently undisturbed by the Duck. Damn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you’re not going to chase down any other leads while you wait? Not going to message Roxy every hour to check on their progress?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk shrugs and drops his phone in his lap. The sad little doodle plummets to its death. “This isn’t a lead I can chase down. This 'Ainsel' has the information I need, and all I have to do to get it is give him his name. Roxy can do that, but it’ll take time. I trust their abilities. He didn’t give me a time limit, so I don’t have to bounce off the walls trying to rush Roxy. That would only make them do a lousy job, and I need this to be perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if Ainsel,” you grimace. That name still feels weird in your mouth. Too many vowels, maybe? “What if Ainsel doesn’t think you can deliver? What if he doesn’t have the information and he’s just playing you? What if Roxy goes to all this trouble and he never comes to collect?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk looks at you over the top of his shades, “Doppelgangers are supposed to be fae. I’ve never met one before so I’m not sure how much that actually holds true, but paranormal beings are supposed to keep any deal you make. Looks bad on the whole community if they don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You make it sound like you made a deal with a devil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Demons and devils are myths. Faeries are legends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a difference?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk stretches his arms above his head, then crosses them under his neck, “A myth you learn about in class, it's a legend that just walked into our apartment and held a knife to your throat.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll give you three guesses as to who Ainsel is, and the first two don't count.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the envelope arrives it’s like a weight off your chest. It’s a solid manila envelope, the same size Ainsel had handed John that day in the campus square. This time, though, it’s addressed to Dirk Strider RE: AINSEL. Roxy’s shaky script is barely legible, but the pink glitter pen gives away the sender. They had not labelled a return address. You drop the envelope on the dining table with a heavy </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk </span>
  </em>
  <span>and a heavy sigh. It gets John’s attention, and he pauses the television to look at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything okay, Dirk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes you a minute to respond, and even then you don’t really answer his question, “Ainsel’s envelope is here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John stands and comes to stand at your side, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. Together you stand and stare at the envelope like it’s going to explode until finally John asks, “Are you going to open it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. Something about doing that, opening the envelope and finding out Ainsel’s name before he knows it himself, it seems wrong. It seems like something you aren’t supposed to do. John’s eyes flicker across your face and you maintain your mask. You don’t know what John’s looking for but all he’s going to find is determination and stoicism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should text Ainsel, then. The sooner he gets that envelope the sooner you have a lead, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right. You know he is, but still your muscles are tense as you slide your phone out of your pocket. Something seems off, something you can’t place. You feel like you’re about to make a mistake. You feel like you’re about to open a door only to find John has balanced a bucket of water on it, or you’re about to round a corner and get pied in the face or- Jesus fuck. How often does John get one over on you, Dirk? You let him live with you for half rent and he still pulls that shit? Send the fucking text, coward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You send the fucking text.</span>
</p><p class="pesterlog"><b>-- </b><b class="dirk">timaeusTestified </b><b>[</b><b class="dirk">TT</b><b>] began pestering </b><b class="dave">twistedTwin</b> <b>[</b><b class="dave">TT</b><b>] --</b></p><p class="dirk">
  <b>TT: I have it.</b>
</p><p class="dave">
  <b>TT: I’ll be there in twenty.</b>
</p><p class="pesterlog"><b>-- </b><b class="dave">twistedTwin</b> <b>[</b><b class="dave">TT</b><b>] ceased pestering </b><b class="dirk">timaeusTestified</b> <b>[</b><b class="dirk">TT</b><b>] --</b></p><p>
  <span>You kind of hate that guy. Very much looking forward to him being out of your hair, out of your life, and out of your skin. Twenty minutes later, the front door opens without so much as a knock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How the fuck do you have a key?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsel looks up from twisting the deadbolt with a grin, “Picked John’s pocket.” He’s wearing an amalgamation of features today, it seems. Your face with too-pale hair, and someone else’s height. Fucking bastard has the nerve to steal your face and then give himself the extra four inches you’ve always wanted. At least John is still taller than Ainsel, you guess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Ainsel says, clapping his hands and rocking back on his heels, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You push John aside and he takes a seat at the kitchen table. You pick up the envelope and hold it out for Ainsel to take. The Doppelganger takes it from your hands and slips past you to sit at the table with John. You watch as he trails a hand over John’s shoulders, and you’re pleased when John shrugs his shoulder and reaches back to rub at the skin Ainsel touched. Good. He should be nervous around paranormals. Keeps him safer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen the name?” Ainsel asks as he folds the aluminum prongs back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Only Roxy knows what’s on those papers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ainsel raises an eyebrow as he starts to slide the papers out, “I figured you’d be curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am,” you answer, sliding into the seat on the other side of the table from Ainsel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks between you and the Doppelganger, and then his hand darts out and steals a piece of paper from the pile that had been in the envelope. He turns it over to you before you can ask him what he’s doing. On it is written, in the same pink glittery pen that the envelope had been addressed, “Sorry Dirk - This was easiest.” You’re just starting to puzzle it out when Ainsel begins to laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roxy certainly does have a sense of humor,” the doppelganger smirks, sliding the papers back into the envelope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? What name did they give you?” John asks, reaching out for the papers. He gets a smack on the wrist for his troubles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nosy,” Ainsel chides, then looks back at you again, “Do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, kind of. I took the time to get you the name, I should know what it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hal Strider,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You reach across the table to yank the envelope away from him. “Hell no,” you growl, and Hal lets go of the envelope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell yes. It doesn’t matter if you read it now, the name is </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was given to me freely, and by a member of the family at that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t have if I had known. Roxy shouldn’t have picked that. Any other name, fine. I’ll get you a new one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re still too late, Dirk. No more Ainsel, no more someone else’s name with every face. I’m Hal Strider,” he grins and reaches out for John’s wrist, “And since you held up your end of the deal, here’s mine.” Hal pulls out a knife, the one he’d held to John’s throat when he had been here last, and presses the flat of the blade to the back of John’s hand. John yelps and you shoot out of your seat and rip Hal’s hand away from him. Now free, John cradles his injured hand to his chest while you get between him and Hal. It was stupid of you to let him sit that close anyway, and now John is hurt. Fucking paranormals. “Cold iron burns faeries,” Hal says with a laughing grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John isn’t-” you start, but the mark on John’s hand catches your eye. Sure enough, the mark matches the shape of Hal’s blade perfectly. You can see John’s skin blistering where the blade touched him. “Fucking hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn to John and his eyes are wide and scared, “I didn’t- I can't-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull his chair back from the table and start scooting him out of it and to the sink. You turn the water on to run cold and stick his hand under the spray, he whimpers when it makes contact with the burn. “It’s fine, we’ll deal with it later.” Your voice has taken on a snappish quality that you’d like to suppress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal is leaning back in his chair looking like the cat who found the cream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t what we fucking agreed to,” you snarl in some attempt to make him look even the slightest bit worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We agreed that I’d give you information in return for my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Information about D.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t recall making that specification, Dirk. You really should be more careful when dealing with the fae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You huff a breath, then turn and start digging through the cabinets to find the first aid kit. You should have known better than to get your hopes up about this fucking dick. Of course he would just jerk your chain around until he got what he wanted. You find the burn cream and start spreading it on John’s hand, even though it’s still wet. You don’t want to try drying it off, it’ll hurt him too much. Could leave fibers behind too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” John says, wincing as you spread the cream over his wound. His eyes are focused over your shoulder, so he’s not talking to you. Whatever, just bandage the burn. “How did you know? I mean- even I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shift into enough skins and you start to learn the differences of how they feel. Humans are tight, oppressive. Faeries are light but carry a weight in their shoulders, like they should have wings there. But I wasn’t really certain until I noticed the burn my knife left on your neck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” John shrugs, then smiles at you in thanks as he pulls away with his freshly bandaged hand. He slips past you and you want to pull him back, want to keep him from getting closer to Hal. You cross your arms and lean back against the kitchen counter. “Well. I guess you’re really going to miss that, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink at the back of John’s head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal echoes your thought, “I’m going to miss what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John makes a short humming noise and rolls his uninjured hand in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know </span>
  </em>
  <span>motion, “Being able to turn into anyone. I don’t get why you wanted to give that up, but then again I guess having your own identity is pretty useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal’s head tilts and he stares at John, confused, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"What?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, like,” John looks back at you as though you could help him, “You gave up being a doppelganger for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal lets out a short bark of laughter, “What? No, no. I- I’m still. I’m still a doppel. That’s- that’s who </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it clicks in your head. Doppelgangers don’t have names, it’s a fundamental part of their mythos. Jesus, Dirk, do you ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Roxy? “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hal, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I guess you just lost your self.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His red eyes flick up to glare at you, then back to the envelope containing all his paperwork. He clenches his eyes shut and you can see him trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>something.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You watch him squirm in the chair, rotate his shoulders, shake out his wrists and ankles. All he accomplishes is popping a few vertebrae in his neck. Finally he slumps back into the chair, “Fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You step forward and slip into the chair John had vacated. You reach out and take the envelope again, this time opening it and flipping through the papers. Not only is Hal apparently your newest family member, he’s also supposedly your twin brother. The birth certificate and hospital bills show that he was born just four minutes after you. Roxy really outdid themself this time. “I’ll make another deal with you, Hal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes, “Why the fuck would I help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Human decency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With the knowledge of a supernatural? Absolutely not. Humans </span>
  <em>
    <span>lie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s nothing stopping you from making a deal with me and not keeping your end this time around, not with me stuck human.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John perks up at this, and once more you don’t have the ability to stop him before something stupid is out of his mouth. “Okay, but I’m fae, right? So why don’t we make a deal, Hal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal sits up in his seat, interest in the conversation rekindled, “I’m listening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk, what is it you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Information on D, specifically that photograph,” You aren’t going to let him trick you again, give information that, while interesting, is unhelpful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Hal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal is silent for a moment, his eyes shifting across nothing in particular, then he finally speaks up, “For Dirk to admit I'm family, I'm his brother. I want connections, friendships. All the things that real people have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Admit you’re not a real boy, Pinocchio?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk don’t be a dick,” John shushes. You slump back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Mommy and Daddy are fighting,” Hal snipes back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs and rolls his eyes, “Hal, don’t be a dick. Jesus, yo don’t have to act so… so </span>
  <em>
    <span>related.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want this deal to work, yes, we do actually,” Hal reminds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine. Whatever. Do you think the two of you can keep to that deal?” John is getting exasperated. You have about ten minutes until he tries to break the tension with some shitty prank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You really don’t want to agree. You don’t want to cooperate, don’t want to let Hal into your life like this. You can find some other lead. There has to be one. Maybe you can trick him into giving something up? He’s human now, he has flaws, he’ll make mistakes. “I want any information he has on Dave too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know anything about Dave. I only saw D in that cell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you know where the cell is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal shrugs, “Sure, not that it’ll help any. It’s impossible to find what you’re looking for Under the Hill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Under which hill?” You’re filing this information away as fast as he slips up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I take that to mean you’re agreeing to the deal?” He’s on to you, and the play is over. You’re unwilling to play his game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My family is missing. You aren’t a part of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk!” John yelps, but you shake your head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he should know that. He’s already got the legal technicalities, he shouldn’t need anything more than that from me. Roxy should have known better than to put my name down on the paper. They could have used their own, made him a Lalonde.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal’s lip comes up on one side, it’s not a smile or a smirk, but something full of disbelief and mirth. He shakes his head and scoffs, “Fine then. It seems I’ll be walking out of here with what I know,” he stands from the table, gathers his papers, and tucks his chair back in. He makes a show of it, makes it a big production.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re certain it’s a show. He’s going to stop at the door and say something like, ‘By the way, here’s the exact coordinates you need.’ He’s putting up a facade, he can’t really be this much of a dick. He can’t really have the information he knows you need and be willing to leave you in the lurch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hal, wait,” John says and stands, following behind the former-doppel as he walks away from the table, trying to catch his arm, “Hal, come on, please. Dirk’s been looking for the information you have for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal shakes John’s arm off as he rounds the corner to the hall. You hear the door open. You hear Hal say, “Obviously it doesn’t mean that much to him, John. I asked for one thing, for him to accept that I’m his family, and he refused.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if Dirk is your family then so is D,” John tries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wouldn’t know who I am. Dirk could explain, but he won’t. No point in putting myself through twice the rejection, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could help him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Value for value received, John. Learn that lesson before another faerie comes and eats you alive for your naivety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hear the door close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wait. Any second, Hal will come back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John walks back into the kitchen and stares at you. You stare back. He shakes his head and scoffs, then turns and walks into his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal doesn’t come back.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Gentlefolks, a round of applause for Hal Strider.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sometimes when writing about mysterious disappearances you just have to mysteriously disappear for like six months. Sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The week after what you’ve decided to call “The Hal Incident,” Dirk dives into research like you’ve never seen him do so before. You can’t get him away from the computer unless you physically pull him away from it, and even then he just picks up his phone and continues his research there. He leaves for the library before it’s open and he doesn’t come home until after it’s closed. It’s… disturbing. Terrifying. You can’t get him to talk to you. He paces in his room and the wall behind the computer has gone from a whiteboard with a few topics and questions to full-on serial killer vibes. Dirk has four different colors of string connecting post-its with the names of articles to newspaper clippings to the photo of D that was in the folder Hal gave you. There’s a pile of old, heavy leather-bound books you’re pretty sure Dirk shouldn’t have been allowed to check out on his desk, and another on the kitchen counter, and several are spread across the coffee table in the living room. He mutters to himself and writes obscure little notes you don’t understand on every scrap of paper he can find.</p>
<p>When you finally snap it’s like he doesn’t even see you. “Dirk,” you sigh, leaning against the doorframe with a plate of casserole you intend to make him eat in hand, “If you don’t take a break, you’re going to collapse. Please, don’t make me call Roxy.”</p>
<p>He stops pacing, but he isn’t facing you. He’s staring out the window. He tilts his head, then in a sudden burst of movement he slaps a new post-it on the wall and brushes past you without saying anything. He’s out the front door before you can question him. The new post-it, slapped haphazardly in the middle of a mess of strings you aren’t sure you could follow if you wanted to just reads “ROXY,” in scribbled sharpie. You eat dinner alone, and when you finally give up and go to bed the clock reads 2:47am. Dirk still hasn’t come home.</p>
<p>The next morning you can’t find Dirk anywhere in the apartment, but there are new books on the coffee table and three half-empty cans of redbull in various places. He must have come home while you slept. You’re beginning to think you might have to tie him to his bed to get him to sleep, but with how squirrely he’s acting he’d probably chew through the rope. You try to tell yourself you’re pacing the apartment because of the mess, because all the books Dirk has left open around the counters make you nervous. </p>
<p>You’d caught sight of a highlighted passage in a book Dirk probably didn’t have permission to highlight, “Mute-blooded fae, especially those previously unaware of their heritage, will begin to exhibit more faerie traits as they learn more about the history and practices of such creatures. All faeries will eventually exhibit these traits, but these revelations will be accelerated if the subject takes active interest in-” you have to stop reading. You have to <em> stop reading </em>this crap. So, you can’t look at any of the open books around the apartment, but you know your curiosity will get the better of you eventually. Just- not now. Not this week. Maybe when Dirk calms the hell down and gets back to a normal level of crazy you can ask him about all this- to help you figure out what the hell you being fae actually means. (It doesn’t mean anything, John. You’re still the same you you’ve always been. (Right?))</p>
<p>So you spend your time in the kitchen. It’s not your preferred space, but you know Dirk won’t bring his research books in here. He knows not to leave something like that in a room meant for fire and water and bubbling pasta sauce. You’d prefer to be on the couch, watching television while you pretend not to constantly worry about where Dirk is, but he keeps leaving his fucking faerie books open on the coffee table.</p>
<p>“The water is boiling, John.”</p>
<p>You spin and catch sight of Dirk. He’s sitting, slouched, on one of the bar stools tucked beneath the kitchen counter. His face is resting in his hand and he’s staring at a blank space on the wall next to the fridge. His shades are gone, and there are heavy bruise-like circles under his eyes. His hair looks greasy and mussed, and you’re pretty sure he’s been wearing that shirt the last three days you managed to catch a glimpse of him.</p>
<p>“You look like crap, Dirk.”</p>
<p>He hums noncommittally, “The water is still boiling, John.”</p>
<p>You roll your eyes and turn back to the stove. You grab the box of pasta from beside the stove and dump half the box into the water, stirring around a few times so the pasta doesn’t immediately clump together.</p>
<p>“Did you salt the water?” Dirk asks when you turn back to face him.</p>
<p>“I always do, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Probably shouldn’t have. Salt is a faerie bane.”</p>
<p>You snort, “I’ve never had a problem with salt before, I don’t see why I would now.”</p>
<p>The exhaustion slips further into Dirk’s voice, “It’s like developing allergies. You might not be allergic to something when you’re younger, but then suddenly you get sick and you’re not sure what’s causing it until one day it clicks. Ragweed. Eucalyptus. Peanuts. Whatever. You should really read up on this before you hurt yourself.”</p>
<p>You shift uncomfortably and turn your attention back to the pasta. You’re quiet for a minute before you say, “Didn’t those books say the more I learned about faeries the more faerie traits I’d have to deal with? Seems like a bad idea.”</p>
<p>“They also said those traits would present themselves regardless of how much you learned, so you might as well do the research and save yourself from getting hurt.”</p>
<p>The water boils over and you’re saved from responding. Dirk seems content to sit quietly and pretend he’s not falling asleep, so you don’t say anything else as you bustle around the kitchen and finish dinner. It’s the first meal you’ve seen Dirk eat in four days so your attention is focused on him when he takes the first few ravenous bites. He’s halfway through his plate before you pick up your fork and twirl up a mouthful of spaghetti.</p>
<p>You spit it back out with a cry of pain.</p>
<p>Dirk looks up from his plate to see you standing there with your burned tongue hanging out of your mouth like an idiot. He slides out of his seat with a sigh and opens the freezer, grabs an ice cube from the try and hands it to you with a, “Suck on that.”</p>
<p>The ice is cold in your mouth, and it sticks to the roof of your mouth where the pasta didn’t burn your palate. “You did that on purpose,” you try to say around the ice cube, but it comes out wobbly and garbled.</p>
<p>Dirk shrugs, neither admitting or denying this fact, and takes your plate from where you set it on the counter. He shakes the pasta on the fork into the trash and then proceeds to eat your dinner. You try to glare at him, but there’s hardly anything intimidating about a chipmunk-cheeked faerie sucking on an icecube when you look as tired as Dirk does. By the time he finishes both plates of spaghetti your ice cube has completely melted and your mouth is sufficiently numb.</p>
<p>Dirk reaches past you into the fridge and pulls out another Redbull. He’s about to crack it open but you stop him by asking, “When’s the last time you actually slept?”</p>
<p>Dirk pops the tab on the Redbull. “Talking is going to rip up your mouth, dude.”</p>
<p>“I’d talk less if you answered my question.”</p>
<p>He brings the can to his mouth, “It’s Tuesday so… maybe forty hours?” He takes a long pull from the can before you can stop him.</p>
<p>“Dirk, it’s Friday.”</p>
<p>Dirk stares at the tiles by his feet and you swear you can almost see the flashing DOES NOT COMPUTE sign blinking in his head as he lets out a mildly distressed groan. He blinks twice, then pulls a hand across his eyes and downs the rest of the can.</p>
<p>“You can’t survive on caffeine and spite.”</p>
<p>“Watch me,” he mumbles and you aren’t sure he knows he’s talking out loud. He’s too stressed- too worn out. You’re going to take drastic measures if he doesn’t sleep soon.</p>
<p>He tosses the now empty can into the trash and slips out of the kitchen. You hear the chair in front of the computer roll across the floor, and then the tell-tale clacking of keystrokes start up. At the longest you’ve witnessed, Dirk has stayed awake for six full days. That was only accomplished because he crushed up caffeine pills and dumped them into coffee brewed with Monster instead of water during finals week. He jittered straight through his chemistry exam and then passed out on the kitchen tiles for thirty-six hours, until you finally got tired of stepping over him and dragged him onto the couch where he slept for another seven hours. When he finally woke up he was in a haze for a week, and nearly useless at all tasks aside from sleeping and binge watching MLP on Netflix. You give him three hours before he face plants into the keyboard.</p>
<p>Three hours later, the clacking of computer keys is still going strong.</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, you break. You walk into the room where Dirk is sitting, working on the computer and you ask him, “What do you have that’s half-baked?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirk glances over his shoulder, barely for a second but you can see how tired he looks. “What are you asking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You roll your eyes and step up to lean against the desk, “You’ve been working like this, nonstop, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>days. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You have to have something, even if it’s half-baked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirk pushes himself back from the desk slowly, then crosses his arms over his chest before looking at you. “It’s crazy, risky, possibly illegal and definitely frowned upon, and you won’t like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like half the shit you come up with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I need you to do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s… not comforting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, but John, it could work. I’ve been reading up on faerie. There’s some protection clause built into their fealty oaths, and it basically means that if a fae under protection of one court is in danger they’d have access to all the information the entire court possesses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You squint, trying to follow Dirk’s logic, “Okay, so…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, if we were to put you in danger, you’d have access to an entire court’s knowledge.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re quiet for a minute, and you sink down to sit on the floor while you process what Dirk’s suggesting. When your thoughts are in order, “Okay, I have a few issues with this. First, putting me in danger. What do you mean by that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing like, life threatening? I found this old binding ritual in one of the books which would basically mean I’d be able to boss you around until the terms of binding were met. In this case it would be finding D and Dave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something prickles your spine. You don’t like the idea of being tied down like that, but if it’s to help Dirk? “Maybe just make it D for now. If it works out we can always do it again for Dave, but we just don’t have a lead on him right now like we do for D.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirk nods, “So, you’ll do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe. But I want to know, why are you so sure any of this is related to the Fae?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hal gave it away. He was fae to begin with which was a big indicator, but he said something after we gave him his Name. He said that it would be impossible to find what we were looking for</span>
  <em>
    <span> Under the Hill</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There’s a lot of names for the like, pocket dimension, liminal space thing where the Faerie courts supposedly reside, but Under the Hill is one of them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You rub a hand across the back of your neck and try not to let on to how weak you think that argument is, but the next question out of your mouth is, “Is there a way to do the binding with an alternate condition? Like, If we find D or-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A binding has to have a specific goal in mind. It’s apparently really, really hard to make a binding spell work - even more so on a faerie instead of just an animal or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. John, look. It’s- I know what I’m asking is a lot, that’s part of the reason why I didn’t want to ask you about it until I was sure it was the only option. I’m still looking, but… Now that Hal’s human a binding spell wouldn’t work on him, and I don’t know any other faeries.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, yeah. I um. Maybe you should keep looking, if you think there might be another choice? Let me know if there’s not, or if you can’t find anything and we can try it, but-.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Leave that the nuclear option?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirk nods, and you sigh but don’t move to stand up. Something is zinging through you and it’s making all your baby hairs stand on end, but you dismiss it as the room being too cold since Dirk has the windows open to help him stay awake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe twenty minutes pass like that, Dirk staring at you with an unreadable expression and you sitting on the floor decidedly in the way of him continuing his research. And then, finally, Dirk stands and mumbles “I’m going to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s what finally gets you off the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you walk into the living room, you find Dirk already asleep on the couch - apparently too exhausted to make it to his bed - and the books are still strewn all over the room. It looks like a tornado blew through, and the mess makes your skin crawl. Not because it’s everywhere, or the books are dusty, or now the living room smells like old books, but because every book in here potentially contains information that you don’t know about yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You go to bed that night with an uneasy feeling in your stomach, and a burn on your tongue from a recipe you’ve made a thousand times, and you try not to think about what else is about to change.</span>
</p>
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